Broker of Darkness
by NightsDarkestHour
Summary: Years ago, you struck out from your home in Dale to explore the world, doing what you love most: bookkeeping. After years of hard work, your reputation has brought you to the gates of the Black Land itself. Sauron has sought your services and now, in the calm before the storm of the Third Age, you will face down The Dark Lord's servants in business meetings and financial reviews.
1. Prescreened Arrival

**Broker of Darkness**

**Chapter 1**

**Prescreened Arrival**

"WHAT? I CAN'T UNDERSTAND YOU," he yelled up, craning his neck to see the orc shouting down at him. His throat already felt scratchy trying to communicate with the sentry dozens of feet above him. The sensation was only exacerbated by the dry, dusty environment and the orc's inability to speak passable common. A garbled cry came from the orc before it disappeared over the ramparts, adding to his growing irritation.

"THEY KNOW I'M COMING," he cried out to the silent wall, "I HAVE THE PAPERWORK HERE." He rifled through one of the bags at his side, shoving aside fresh scrolls and tombs of lore to pull out a parchment signed with what appeared to blood and branded with a the seal of the Lidless Eye. However abhorrent it might have looked, this was his only ticket into Mordor that didn't require an army at his back and a sword at his hip.

He unrolled the paper and waved it over his head, trying to get the attention of anyone else upon the walls. When no answer was forthcoming, he let his parched throat rest from the incessant screaming. He let out a breath through his front teeth, whistling in frustration. No other sound could be heard from the Black Gate. Not even the cry of bird or animal had been uttered in days.

He turned his back, regretting the long trek it took just to get here. Perhaps the Steward of Gondor could use his services, with the winds of war in the air. The Southern Fiefs would need people to keep their naval budget in check. He hadn't had to do military financials since the mid-Second Age, so it would require some brushing up. If all else failed, he could go to Dale and offer his services to the local economy. The booming trade from Erebor had attracted plenty of entrepreneurs and they would need help with their money.

He grimaced at the idea, almost able to hear the approving voice of his father telling him that he was finally being sensible and putting his knowledge to good use as a venture capitalist bookkeeper.

He was saved from his employment crisis when the Black Gate opened behind him, groaning on huge iron hinges. Through the opening rode a tall black shape on a skeletal horse of the same color. The only adornment the figure carried was a broach in the shape of the Lidless Eye, which clasped the edges of his cloak around his shoulders.

The bread-counter turned back to the gate and the thing that had emerged from its cavernous entrance. The entrance and figure was unnerving, but no worse than a dwarf lord who was missing a few grams of mithril on the books. He attempted to swallow the nervous twinge but only made his dry mouth worse when he gagged on his swollen tongue.

"My master, Sauron the Great, bids thee welcome," the figure said, looking him up and down with a cold gaze. The silence stretched on.

"My name is Torrad son of Einar," he fumbled around inside his bag for the parchment he had stuffed back in, "and I have the paperwork here for my employment in the treasury of Sauron the Maia." Torrad held out the parchment from before, waiting for the being to scrutinize his credentials. "Do you need my credentials or is this not an interview meeting?" I reached for my bag, prepared to pull out my book of references and accomplishments. Instead, the rider glanced at the scroll with disdain, continuing on.

"I am the Mouth of Sauron and have been sent here to escort you to Barad-dûr, coin-watcher." The figure used the name almost as a curse. "I would not dare question the vast wisdom of Sauron, Lord of the Earth, but I do question the uses of such people as you." His sentiment was not new, which took away much of the sting he had no doubt meant for Torrad.

"Your master has seen fit to make use of my services." Torrad sniffed at the rider, conjuring up some measure of scorn for the attitude he was being given. "Beyond that, you need not worry. My expertise is often not evident to lackeys like you who can't see the bigger picture."

The Mouth of Sauron glared daggers at him. He was sure the rider was contriving ways to end his life painfully in the deepest dungeons he had access to. Fortunately for him, Sauron's seal guarded his life against any overt attempts upon it… for now.

A bark of laughter emerged from The Mouth's thin lips. The hatred in his eyes had not disappeared, but his cruel features no longer promised a slow end in the dark.

"With a tongue such as that, you shall do well within the treasury of Sauron, Lord of the Rings." Torrad's ears perked up at the mention of rings. If one thing could sidetrack him from fearing for his life, it was a challenge. "Come now, and I shall take you to the tower of his majesty." The Mouth turned his mount, riding back through the archway. He motioned for his charge to follow as he cantered away.

Torrad looked back and forth for his own mount. Seeing none, he scampered after the rider, realizing he may have overstepped the goodwill of this glorified doorman. He passed underneath the shadow of the structure and came out the other side in time to catch up with The Mouth of Sauron. Behind him, the great doors boomed shut. The human could see the legions of watchers that patrolled back and forth across the gantries and walkways of the gate, ever-vigilant. Beyond the gate was a barren wasteland of rocky outcroppings and hard-packed earth. Clouds of ash and darkness created a barrier against the sky while thunder flashed and rumbled now and again. Off in the distance, a towering furnace of the world belched forth smoke and fumes that fed the ceiling overhead.

Rising above it all, dimly visible through the smog, was a tower that sought to rival the pinnacles of the Misty Mountains in grandeur and scale. Among its multitude of towers and precipices was an arrogance that astounded and cowed him. At the pinnacle of its mighty battlements was the visage of an eye. Slit-pupiled and wreathed in flame, he could feel its mighty gaze pierce through cloud and flesh. His spirit quailed, even from this distance.

"You feel his power and glory, do you not," the Mouth of Sauron cackled, delighting in his charges fear. "It is nothing compared to what you shall face when you stand before him."

"Oh joy," Torrad mumbled. He watched a hideous creature lead a ragged black horse towards the duo, tugging the reins to lead the resisting creature. The orc, if that is what it was, placed the leather strips into his hand. He shivered at the tough, leathery feeling of its skin.

The human pulled away, running a hand down the bedraggled horses flank. It calmed slightly under his stroked, heaving less, and whites of its eyes faded slightly. He murmured in its ears, recalling the lessons the elves had taught him.

"We must be off, for I have more important business to attend to," the Mouth of Sauron said. His look of disgust didn't faze Torrad in the slightest, who mounted his new ride. The horse whickered while he climbed up the stirrups, pawing at the ground.

When he was seated on the horses back, he squeezed his thighs. The horse responded in kind, trotting forward along the road leading to the tower.

"I think someone's compensating," he murmured under the sound of hooves on the stones. The remark made him feel slightly better.


	2. One Bauble, Two Bauble, Three Bauble

**Broker of Darkness**

**Chapter 2**

**One Bauble. Two Bauble. Three Bauble…**

After being let through the gates of Barad-dur, the Mouth of Sauron left Torrad with a sneer, remarking about 'more important matters' to attend to. He was left in the center of a courtyard, surrounded by orcs and other evil-looking creatures as the robed figure strode away. Not for the first time was the human rethinking his choice of employer as the stares of the guards took on a sinister hunger. He pulled his cloak tighter around his frame, concealing the fact that the only weapon he carried was a small dagger strapped to his leg.

Fortunately for him, a side door opened up and an emaciated human stepped through. He held a torch in one hand and a haunted look in his eyes as he shuffled over to Torrad. The person tugged at his cloak, beckoning for the bookkeeper to follow him. Torrad's eyes glanced around for confirmation that he should follow the guide, but received nothing from the guards. He decided to risk following the servant rather than stay out in the open any longer.

The gaze of the sentries followed at his back, down long halls and courtyards. The atmosphere was dim and suffocating. The little light that was available radiated from braziers hanging from the walls, giving off oily smoke that lingered near the ceiling. The air reeked of burning fat and became stifling as the bookkeeper and his guide descended into the earth.

"So uh, what brought you here," he asked the torchbearer. "This doesn't seem like the friendliest work environment for humans." No response. "Do you know of any places to grab a bite to eat? I don't know if you know any local eateries that might be especially good." Nothing. "I guess you're not the talkative type. I'll let you do your job." Torrad fell into silence as their journey down continued.

More and more heavily barred doors appeared to either side as their downward trend leveled out. The orc-kind largely absent from the rest of their journey now became more frequent. Guards were posted at many of the doors and patrols of one or two crossed paths with the two humans. Torrad noticed that they weren't as small as the ones above. Now they were as tall, or taller, than him. The weapons they carried were just as vicious-looking and they all wore snarling scowls. His guide hugged the wall, and he followed suite after nearly being trampled to death by a burly orc that whacked him with the butt-end of his spear as he passed by.

He was still rubbing his bruised ribs when they finally turned down an open hallway. Two guards passed by, dragging an orc body behind that had blackened at the throat. The bookkeeper swallowed nervously, seeing that the only way the body removers had come from was the same solitary entrance that he was headed for.

His human guide stopped at the entryway, waving him in. Torrad hesitated. He wiped sweaty palms on his tunic and walked in. A thought occurred and turned to ask a question, but the torchbearer was already walking away. He sighed, turning away from the only familiar thing he had seen since arriving.

The chamber he entered was cluttered with an assortment of _stuff_. He couldn't think of any other word for it, it was everything from candlesticks, to furniture, to animal skins, to what looked like a golden wash basin. They were heaped haphazardly without rhyme or reason, blocking out most of his view of the room. Off in the distance he swore he could even hear the snorts and slurps of some animal.

The administrative wheels in Torrad's mind began to spin, calculating depreciation values based on condition and a host of other details to determine what these piles of things were worth. A jeweled comb rested on top of a glass case that held similarly-fashioned hair curlers. Engraved into it where subtle carvings of eyes. Not pairs, but singular ones, in the likeness of cats.

"Garn, you found the boss's pretty things. I've been looking for those."

Torrad whirled around, dropping the hairbrush at the sudden voice behind him. It was another orc, but this one was robed in greasy robes of some kind he had never seen before. It carried no weapon he could see, but the powerful muscles in its arms left the impression that they could tear him apart easily.

"What's the matter man-swine, wolf got your tongue," it asked as he fumbled for words. When he couldn't find any, he picked up the hairbrush and placed it back. The orc growled and shoved him aside, picking up the jeweled beauty and scratching at its nose with the golden bristles.

"You not hear me man-swine, or do you have mutton in your ears?" Torrad still hadn't found the words to respond as the creature berated him verbally. He gave up, pulling his hiring papers out and holding them out. The orc grabbed the papers, giving them a casual once-over before crumpling them up. Torrad cried out at the abuse of his paperwork.

"Don't get yourself all worked up, I know who you are." The orc tossed the paper behind him, landing it in a similar pile of refuse in the corner of the room. "I could smell you from across the room, all ink and parchment. Not like the blood and fear of the ones we keep in the dungeons."

The bookkeeper's flabbergastion continued. The orc stuffed the hairbrush into a pocket and scrutinized the human with a cunning eye. It wasn't the brutal cunning of the other orcs he had seen before. This one looked like he was sizing up Torrad to use his skin as paper, not just to brutalize him as fun. It made him even more uncomfortable. Torrad made a mental note to find an intimidating weapon in the near future. As long as he lived to see that future.

"You know how to count?" The orc had finished his examination while it had been thinking and started riffling through a nearby heap.

"I do know how to count," Torrad said, finding his voice. "I've been trained in accounts payable, inventory, retained earnings." He started to list his knowledge off on his fingers.

"Any practice with accounts receivable?" The orc interrupted him, pulling out a wicked-looking dagger from the pile and picking his teeth with it. "Lots of that sort of thing going on around here."

"Um, yes, plenty at my time in Dale and the Blue Mountains. I also know-"

"How much experience with inventory you got?" The orc flicked bits of gristle from his teeth onto the same pile his papers now occupied. "We got a lot inventorying to do around here."

"I can see that," Torrad said, feeling confident enough to let a bit of his normal sass back in. The orc looked at the piles behind him and bellowed out in laughter.

"This doesn't even scratch the surface of what I'm talking about. You're going to start with this to clear up space for the real inventory." The orc's grin revealed rows of crooked, black teeth.

"Now that I know my duties, where will I be working?" He needed some space to recollect his thoughts and come to terms with the situation. Preferably a place he could make his own and get to work right away.

"We got a place for you all right. Just freed it up a few minutes ago when we knew you would be coming." The orcs grin became slyer than before, as if reveling in some secret joke that Torrad didn't want to know. "Follow me."

The orc led the human to a side room, obscured by a pile of what looked suspiciously like elvish sets of armor, and introduced his newest office. It was small room with a cot, a table, three chairs and a fire place. On the table was a suspicious black spot that was releasing steam. He could see a half-melted mug next to it that the orc picked up and tossed out through the doorway.

"This here is where you'll work, eat and sleep. The bosses don't really care much for us so what you see is what you get. You want food, you can get some in the mess hall. Besides that, you're on your own. We'll bring down some parchment for you to get started on right away."

He nodded absently, already planning how he would set everything up. The sheets would be the first thing to go and he wanted the bed as far away from the door as possible. Maybe he could even scrounge up a few boxes or end-tables for more work space. It might even be cozy with a small fire going and some personal amenities in place.

"Wait, before you go I have some questions," he said to the departing orc. The creature let out a low growl but turned back nonetheless. "First off, I'm not a jeweler or someone who can assess an item's worth. I just keep stock and balance the ledgers. By The Bowman, I don't even know what currency you use in Mordor." The orc huffed in annoyance.

"Use whatever you want, no one's going to actually look at these old parchments. If you want to use snaga ears, be my guest." Torrad wondered what a snaga was and why it's ears were valuable in any way.

"But- but how do I tell what it's worth?" The orc rolled his eyes at the question.

"If you really need to know the numbers, go ahead and talk to the man-swine up top. Tall with grey eyes, they is. They know jewels and trinkets like that." The orc glared at him, waiting for the questions to stop.

"The other thing is, if we are going to be working together, I would like to know your name. Mine is Torrad, son of Einar." He stuck out his hand in greeting. Instead of the hand-clasp he was expecting, the orc grabbed his shoulders and smacked its skull against the human's.

Torrad saw stars when the initial blackness had cleared, finding himself leaning up against the table. The sound of churlish laughter rang in his ears as the orc mocked him from where stood.

"You can call me Lûrgaz the Crafty, man-swine," the orc said around his guffaws. "Here's a little present for you." He tossed the hairbrush onto the table. "Go ahead and start with that."

"But won't the boss you mentioned want it back," Torrad asked around his reeling head. He picked up the brush, clutching the table to help stop the room from spinning around him.

"Boss ain't got much use for it now," Lûrgaz chuckled. With that, the orc was gone.

Torrad lowered himself into one of the chairs. He unfastened the straps of his pack and shrugged it off his shoulders, taking a small loaf of cram out. The cracker soothed his empty stomach and gave him something to focus on besides the growing headache. He sat that way until two men came in, carrying great leaves of paper. They placed the paper on his table and then scurried away as fast as their emaciated bodies could carry them.

He removed a jar of ink from its carefully wrapped package, along with his favored quill. When he had set up a writing placement, opposite the table from the black mark, he went in search of the first item to catalogue.

He was stuck by the enormity of the task ahead of him, looking up at the mountains of valuables. He let out a breath and thought. Closing his eyes, he calmed himself thinking back. A voice from his past spoke up.

"The river run of a thousand bends, begins with a single stroke, son." He half-smiled at the memory of his father, encouraged by the imaginary voice. He picked up a nearby sack that jingled as he carried it back to his station. Pulling out a fresh sheaf, he dipped the quill tip into the pot and wrote 'Inventory' at the top, denoting a '1' in the corner. He reached into the bag and pulled out a ring with a ruby set it into.

"One gold ring, normal-sized, not engraved, set with single, small ruby, unremarkable craftsmanship," he mumbled to himself, writing down the assessment as he monologued. "Estimated worth…" he considered it, giving up after a moment, "five gold pieces." He set the ring aside and reached in the bag again.

"One silver ring, normal-sized, not engraved, set with single, small ruby…"


	3. Prove Your Worth

**Broker of Darkness**

**Chapter 3**

**Prove Your Worth**

Torrad was jostled back and forth as the orcs in the serving line interacted with each other. The larger uruks pushed around the smaller orcs, asserting their dominance over the ones they saw as inferior, while the orcs squabbled amongst themselves and made attempts to topple the uruks using swarm tactics. He walked along, avoiding all of them as best he could.

At the moment, the human was nose-deep in a response to his appraisal requests. The humans in the smithies, black númenóreans he had been informed of at knife point, had sent back descriptions for all the items he had sent up. In a timely matter, no less. Then again, he wasn't dealing with orc-folk this time, so the surprise wasn't necessarily warranted.

He was next for the midday meal, holding out his clean bowl to the uruk dishing out the gruel that was barely food. The server was already snarling at him to move on before the chunky paste had even slopped into his dish. He scuttled out of the way as a bruiser of an uruk shoved him forward. Torrad stumbled, holding the bowl out to keep its precious contents from spilling. He sprawled on the ground, food safe, but with one more bruise to add to his growing collection. He craned his neck, glaring at the laughter that had broken out amongst the hungry crowds. Orc and uruk alike reveled in his suffering, the one activity that brought the two kinds together. He stood up, dusting himself off and scampered out of the communal mess hall.

As he walked, his thoughts turned from the orc-folk's brutish behavior, back to the problem at hand. The black númenóreans had attended to every item sent their way, confirming his own evaluations, while correcting his mistakes, and attaching their own estimates of value to the items.

Most of the items had been undervalued by him. No surprise there, he wasn't a jeweler. The frustrating part was that the númenóreans had designated a portion of the trove as "Magical", followed by an irritating note that they couldn't determine its worth. If it was only a few, that would have been fine, he was used to rounding errors. But it seemed that there were question marks ever few lines. He wanted nothing more than to write it off as their original values and be done with it, but his inner professional refused to let such a large sum go.

Torrad was still puzzling over the conundrum, scouring his memory for the lessons he had received on magical depreciation, when he returned to his quarters. His weeks of work now covered the walls with parchment, tacked up by wax clumps from his supplies. The space above his newly furnished sleeping pallet was home to a chart dedicated to approximations of various materials, craftsmanship and age. The bookkeeper pushed aside a running addition of the items scrawled in one of his tomes, setting down his food and reaching for the spice packets that had become the highlight of each meal.

Before he left Dale, he had stopped at the marketplaces and bought a small pouch of his childhood. It held a fine powder, known colloquially as 'barrel-rider breath', in its oil-skin leather. He may have initially bought it for sentimental reason, but the added flavor to his meals added a little bit of excitement. It also made the current plate palatable.

He stirred the gruel, relishing the hint of nutmeg and spice that livened the dank air. A smile caressed his lips as he took his first mouthful.

Across the chamber, in his own secluded den, Lûrgaz sniffed the air. Some new scent had wafted in from outside and it smelled better than most of the odors present down here. He stood up from his bedroll, snagging an old leg of mutton that had been left out from last week. The orc went hunting for the scrumptious smell coming from his new associate's quarters, tearing at the haunch with razor teeth.

Torrad was enjoying the meal when his peace was broken by the sounds of ripping flesh and snuffling. Into his personal space stomped the orc who 'worked' with him. In its skeletal hands it wielded a club-sized slab of meat that the orc was systematically devouring. Lûrgaz's shrewd eyes strayed to the bowl in the human's hands before wandering away. Torrad hoped the orc would leave as soon as possible and let their mutual lack of regard continue. That hope was dashed when his gruesome coworker plopped down across from him.

"Something smells good over here. Smells like good eats," Lûrgaz said between mouthfuls of mutton. Torrad watched as the orc sprayed half-chewed bits of food with each word, wincing at the mess being made.

"Just the normal stuff from the mess hall," the human said, checking to make sure the pouch was back in his bag. "Nothing special or flavorful here. Just the normal gruel and surprise crunchy bits inside it." He smiled as convincingly as he could, hoping the orc wouldn't notice his odd-colored meal. Well, odd-colored compared to the usual shade of grey.

The orc looked at him with baleful eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose and staring at the human as he did so. His stomach sank when the thought occurred to him that the orc might have better senses than he realized. The orc's beady eyes trailed from the bowl in his hands to the pack nearby that housed the precious seasoning. Unconsciously, he leaned toward the spot, ready to snatch the pack out of the orc's hairy reach.

"Seems like you've been holding out on me man-swine. Whatever you got in that pack smells mighty fine from the other chamber." Lûrgaz tapped his curved nose, smiling wickedly at the human. Torrad's face turned white.

"Now I'm sure you got a real good reason for not distributing some of that tastiness in your pouch, but did you really think you could hide it from me? I'm sharper than I look," the orc drawled, tearing off another hunk of meat. While he chewed, Torrad reached out and dragged the chair holding the bag closer to him.

"So how 'bout you sprinkle some on here," Lûrgaz waved around the remains of his mutton leg, "and we'll call everything right." It may have been phrased as a question, but with a half-eaten leg of meat thrust into his face, Torrad didn't think it was. His mind worked furiously to save his precious spice.

"You, um, wouldn't like it. It's really spicy and not for everyone," the human explained, peeking around the meat stick.

"I don't care if it's hot as Ancalaogon's breath, it'll make that slop actually good. Besides, a little pain never hurt no one." The orc waggled the meat, forcing Torrad to weave back and forth to see around the obstacle as he puzzled over who Ancalagon was.

"It's not just spicy it's- it's," he floundered before blurting out the only thing that came to mind, "It's made by the elves!" His exclamation was met by another long sniff. The orc rolled it's eyes.  
"No, smells like dwarf spices alright. A bit of nutmeg too, if my nose don't deceive me." He looked at Torrad. "Unlike your pathetic attempts."

Admitting defeat, he pulled out the pouch with hunched shoulders and undid the drawstring. He took a precious pinch and sprinkled it across the mutton, grieving over his lost barrel-rider breath.

Lûrgaz eyed the powdered flesh greedily, licking his scarred lips in anticipation. He bit into it and growled with delight at the succulent flavor. Torrad watched him devour the remaining leg in a matter of minutes, consumed by horrid fascination as the chunk of animal disappeared into the orc's gullet. The orc bookkeeper smacked lips and licked his fingers, leaning back in his seat with a sigh. "They really know how to make meat tasty," he muttered.

"So, if you don't mind me asking," the human said carefully, watching one of the orc's eyes pop open at his voice, "How do you know what dwarf spices smell like?" He paused. "Or nutmeg for that matter."

"I've been around. I haven't always been stuck in this dungeon." Torrad squirmed slightly at the word. "Used to fight the dwarves back in the good old days. I killed many of those stone-people when we sacked Gundabad. Those were good vittles they had in the storehouses, we were feasting for days after that. As for the nutmeg, well, this nose has smelled quite a few things in its life."

"Makes sense." He tried to remember his dwarven history lessons, but couldn't come up with a place to match Gundabad. He filed it away for later, moving onto the burning question. "What is Ancalagon? Who is Ancalagon?"

"Ah, he was one of the greatest things you've ever seen. All fire, destruction and hugeness. He was the greatest flying dragon ever. He stretched from mountaintop to mountaintop without his wings, could breathe fire to melt entire armies, scorched the air around him just by being there." Lûrgaz waved his arms to the beat of his story, miming the movement of a dragon. Torrad was enraptured by the description of the mighty worm.

"So you've seen this dragon? Is that what you… people call Smaug?" He struggled for a word that wouldn't aggravate the orc bookkeeper out of his mellow, post-meal stupor. The orc looked at with him with casual malice at the hiccup.

"The dragon up at Lone Peak isn't nothing compared to the great worms of the old days. Sure, Smaug was big and nasty, but he was a runt next to even Glaurung. If you thought Smaug was terrible, then you should have seen what kind of damage Ancalagon could do. Not like the creatures around today," Lûrgaz said, a wistful glaze passing over his twisted features. Torrad waited for the orc to go on with his tale but was disappointed when the orc remained lost in the good old days.

Most of what the orc had said passed over Torrad's head, but it was a glimpse into a fantastical world from the safety of his dungeon room in the single most fortified fortress in the middle of a land of evil. He shied away from that thought as soon as it popped in, and he picked up a parchment to focus on something less depressing. The paper didn't help, only reminding him of the problem he still faced. An idea came to him.

"Lûrgaz, you've been around a while, can I ask you some questions?" The orc glanced over suspiciously, but didn't say anything in response. "I'm having some problems here with determining the value of quite a few items on my list. You might know, but how much is magic worth?"  
The question hung in the air. It occurred to Torrad, that he may have just asked the most ridiculous question of his career. He tried to melt into the floor the longer the silence dragged on.

Lûrgaz held out his hand, to which the human handed over a thin circlet that had been labeled as such. He scrambled the catch the item when the orc threw it back at him.

"Not the object man-swine, the parchment!" He growled at the somewhat cowed human, who gave up the paper with trembling hands. Lûrgaz snatched the parchment and perused its contents.

"Jot this down." When he didn't hear any reaction to his command, he glared over the edge of its yellow pages. "Didn't you hear me, or are you as deaf as you are fragile? Write this down!" Torrad scrambled for a pot of ink, nearly spilling its contents on the table.

"For First Age magic items, add half its worth again if its elf or dwarf make. Tark-made are worth just their price. Second Age stuff gets an additional one-third of its appraisal if its elf make. Dwarf and tark make is only one-quarter from that time." Torrad continued to scribble furiously as the orc rattled off the value adjustments. "Anything from this age is its appraised price and if we have anything from before the First Age, it's double what was written."

When the human finished his scrawling, he gazed at the orc in wonder. Lûrgaz ignored him and tossed the parchment back across the table.

"How do you know all that," Torrad asked in amazement. "I mean, it sounds right when you say it, but where did you learn all of that?"

"I've been around," the orc shrugged, "taken a lot of stuff and resold it. They wouldn't keep me doing this job if I was incompetent. But now that I've helped you, it's time for you to help me." The Mordor bookkeeper stood up, stepping away from his seat. "As soon as you finish up with that, we're going to get started on war work." An eager gleam shone in the slanted eyes at the mention of war.

"But I've never done any accounting for army's. Supply and tallying wasn't part of my training, I'm only qualified for financial bookkeeping," Torrad protested.

"Lucky for you, you've got me to teach you. Besides, this comes down from the bosses. Not Lugbûrz, mind you, just the bosses over me." The orc chucked at the human's helpless look, relishing his discomfort. "So get your writing hand ready. We've got armies to count. As soon as you finished with that, send it to the Tower of Records and we'll get started." With that, the orc mock-saluted the human, his hand a grey color now.

Torrad hung his head, wondering how lunch had gone so wrong. He looked up at the now-vacant room, thinking about all the possible ways he could make a fool of himself. Or worse. Screw up and be immediately terminated. He doubted that he would receive a simple pink slip here in Mordor.

He pulled the bowl of gruel closer, taking a bite of his meal.

_At least the food tastes better now. _He took another spoonful but scraped only empty crockery. Torrad looked down in horror at the dish. It was void of all gruel, wiped nearly clean.

His head banged against the table. He sighed in frustration, wondering if things could get worse.


End file.
